


Drowning in a self hatred ocean

by allisonfunn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Self Harm, self hatred, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonfunn/pseuds/allisonfunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that's when all the pieces come together for Sam, when Sam realizes what Dean has been doing.</p>
<p>Dean hurt himself. Intentionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning in a self hatred ocean

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have a theme of writing characters who hate themselves (does that say something about me?). It's not my fault that Dean Winchester hates himself.

Castiel looks at the stab wound on Dean's arm. There's something about it that makes him pause. Dean looks at Cas' face. He's worried that the angel might figure it out. He's worried that he'll have to explain himself. He doesn't want to do that.

"Dean," Cas begins, pressing a finger near the fresh wound. Dean hisses. "I do not understand how this happened. The fight did not involve knives?"

"You weren't there when he pulled it on me," he mutters, not looking at Cas' confused face.

"When?

"I don't fucking know! I don't keep a diary of every time some evil son of a bitch tries to gank me!"

Cas narrows his eyes in confusion, but doesn't say anything. He places his hand over the wound and heals it with his grace. Dean doesn't want Cas to heal him. He wants it to scar.

He doesn't say anything.

###

Dean looks down at the cuts on his leg; it's only slightly bleeding.

He's sitting on the sink in a nasty motel bathroom, holding a razor between his fingers. He pulls it harder across the canvas of his thigh again. He exhales harshly at the pain it. He likes it. It brings him a sense of relief.

Dean doesn't think he's doing anything too out of line. Hunters usually don't come out of the job without a few problems. Weaknesses; places where if you hit them hard enough, often enough, they become constants, necessity.

Dean needs to hurt. Doesn't help that he hates himself, that he thinks he deserves this pain. Sam doesn't know, wouldn't understand. Cas would just lecture him on how important he is, why the world needs him. Dean knows that's not the truth.

The world would be better off with Dean Winchester dead. And oh God how he's tried.

There's a sharp knock on the door. It startles Dean, causing him to cut deeper than he had intended.

"You okay, man? Did ya fall in?"

"Yeah, I'm fine Sammy. Can't a girl shave her legs in peace?" Sarcasm. Dean Winchester's first defense mechanism.

"Hardy har har," Sam retorts. "Just hurry up and get your ass out of there. Some of us need to shower."

"Yeah."

Dean looks down at his thigh. There are dozens of superficial cuts but the one he just caused stands out. It's deep, deeper than he's ever cut. He can see fat tissue. Should probably sew that one up while Sam's in the shower. He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and presses it on the cuts before pulling his pants back on. His wallet is next to him on the sink; he picks it up and slips the razor back in it.

Sam gives him an exasperated look when he finally comes out of the bathroom.

"'Bout damn time, Dean," Sam says.The bathroom door shuts resolutely behind him.

Dean takes his pants off and removes the handkerchief. Definitely'll need stitches. He opens his duffel and starts rifling through it for his first aid bag.

"What're you doing?"

Dean freezes and stiffly turns his head. "Um," he pauses. "I'm lookin' for pants."

Sam has his shirt off and is holding a men's razor. "Your jeans're on your bed..."

"Clean pants." He shifts uncomfortably.

"We haven't done anything today besides sit in the Impala and drive. We got out like twice."

Dean's heart buh-dumps harshly in his chest. He can feel the blood seep out of the deep cut, making his boxers stick to his leg. Shit.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Stand up then."

"Leg cramp."

"Crouching like that won't help it any."

"Dammit Sam! Just leave it alone!"

Sam sets his jaw and exhales sharply out of his nose. "Fine. I'm running out of hot water anyway." He leaves again.

Dean lets out the breath he didn't realize he's been holding and grips his first aid kit. He slowly stands and watches the blood slide down his leg.

He tosses the bag on his bed and sits, taking a needle and some fishing line.

"No time to clean anything," he mutters as he threads the needle and expertly stitches the wound closed. He stuffs the bloody boxers and handkerchief into the bottom of his duffel—after using them to wipe the rest of the blood off of himself—with his first aid bag. He pulls his pants back on quickly, no time to find a new pair of underwear.

He gets under the covers just as Sam walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He's out of the shower in under ten minutes. Dean's pretty sure that's a record.

"Gonna take a shower?"

"Nah."

Sam looks at him oddly before pulling a handful if clothes out of his own duffel.

"Thought you were dirty or somethin'." Sam comments, pulling on his boxer briefs. He turns to look at Dean.

Dean shrugs.

Sam pulls a shirt over his head. "You change your pants?"

"The fuck's it matter to you?"

"I'm just making conversation, Dean. Why're you so damn jumpy?"

Dean sighs, "Yeah, I changed my pants."

Sam glances into Dean's bag and sees there aren't any dirty pants wadded up in it.

"Where'd ya put 'em?"

"Go the fuck to sleep, Samantha," Dean grumbles, turning over onto his stomach.

Sam sighs heavily as he turns off the only light source in the room, an old, beaten up lamp that's bolted to the table between them. He crawls under his own blankets.

"Night Deanna."

There is a scoff before "Bitch," is mumbled into Dean's pillow.

"Jerk." Sam's reply is soft; he's almost positive Dean didn't hear it, and if he had he most likely didn't hear the concern.

###

Sam Winchester knows about Dean's self hatred—he would be legitimately shocked if someone didn't pick up on it. He likes to think that he knows the extent to which it spreads but he's well aware that he doesn't understand why.

He wishes that he could help Dean, wishes that Dean could go to therapy or take antidepressants. But that'd be difficult, too difficult to be worth it (at least that's what Dean would say). It would just be a waste of money.

Dean's sick in the morning, which means something pretty serious's going down. Dean doesn't get sick. He was perfectly fine yesterday. There's no reason he should be sick.

The only time either of them have ever gotten this sick—fever, sweaty, pale—was when Dean had tried to stitch a ragged cut that Sam had gotten from messing around in one of these nondiscript motel rooms. They were kids then. Sam doesn't even remember how he'd gotten hurt anymore. He just remembers how Dean hadn't cleaned the wound or sterilize the needle. They'd been in a shitty, dirty motel like this one; germs everywhere.

And that's when all the pieces come together for Sam, when Sam realizes what Dean has been doing.

Dean hurt himself. Intentionally.

Sam's upset, confused, concerned. So many different emotions that it's overwhelming. He has to take a moment to compose himself. He doesn't know what to do. Call Cas? What would the angel say? Would he be upset with Sam for not noticing Dean's habit? But looking back, Sam realizes that he has noticed. Little things. Like cuts and bruises after fights that weren't intensive. Staying in the bathroom for way too long....

He definitely hurt himself last night, Sam decides. That's a given.

Dean is pale, laying under his blankets, shivering. He looks like Death.

Sam stands by Dean's bed, his arms crossed.

"Anything you wanna tell me, Dean?"

He looks up from under his covers.

"Well, this one time at band camp—"

"Dammit Dean, I'm being serious!"

Dean turns over.

"Take off your clothes."

"Kinky son of a bitch," Dean mutters to the wall.

Sam clenches his jaw—what a Dean reaction—and goes to the end of the bed. He grips the covers and quickly rips them off.

"Saaaaam," he whines. "Sam please don't do this." He curls into himself.

"I'll only ask you one more time," Sam says through clenched teeth. "Is there anything you wanna tell me about?"

Dean grabs the pillow next to him and shoves it on his face.

"No."

"Okay then," Sam says, leaving the sheets on the ground. "I'm calling Cas."

Dean lifts the pillow off of his face and looks at Sam. "You would not."

Sam ignores him and sits down on his own bed. He folds his hands, closes his eyes, and begins praying. "Castiel. I know that you are busy."

"Sam please." Dean says, scooting himself up the bed to rest against the headboard.

"But there is an urgent matter down here on Earth."

"Please don't do this," Dean whispers. "Please don't get Cas involved."

"It's Dean, Castiel. He's very sick."

"I don't want him here."

"He won't tell me how he got sick. He was perfectly fine last night."

"Sam." Dean whispers in one last, valient effort to stop Sam's prayer.

"He needs you, Cas. Dean needs you."

There is a flutter of wings as Castiel appears. He looks first at Sam before shifting his gaze to Dean.

"What happened, Dean?"

Dean groans and scoots back down the bed. He turns onto his side away from the two. "Go away, Cas."

"No." Cas puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Heal me and I'll fucking shoot you."

"That would be ridiculous as well as counterproductive," Castiel says. "Please. Tell us what is wrong."

Dean huffs and flops onto his back. "I cut myself," he mumbles, hoping they don't understand what he says.

"In an altercation?" Castiel asks.

Dean stares up at the ceiling.

"Intentionally." Sam finally says, crossing his arms. "He fucking hurt himself intentionally."

Castiel stands for a moment just staring at Sam, unbelieving of the words. Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, deliberately harmed himself. Cas is upset, furious. He wants to punch Dean in the face. He wants to hold Dean and tell him that he should love himself. Wants to tell him that his soul is beautiful. He does none of these things.

Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, grips Dean's hand, and lets a tear slide down his cheek.

"Dean," his voice is soft, sad. "Why would you do that?"

"Cas..." Dean sighs. "Cas, you gotta understand how fucked up my head is."

Cas stares at Dean. "I put your soul back together," his voice is louder now. "Piece by piece by piece. I put you back together and God did it hurt to see your pain. But you don't try and lessen your pain by HURTING yourself." He stands and hits the lamp with the back of his hand. It flies across the room. Sam is backed against a wall, watching the scene play out. Dean is cowering with a pillow clutched to his chest. Cas turns abruptly back to Dean. "You talk to someone, dammit! You tell someone you love that you hurt, that you need a hug or night out or a good night's sleep!" He runs his fingers through his hair and sits, still obviously seething. "Now you let me heal you and tell me where you keep whatever you use to injure youself. Or I will injure you myself."

Dean lets out a shakey breath. "In my wallet. It's in my wallet."

Castiel turns to look at Sam. "Get it while I heal him."

Sam finds Dean's wallet on the dresser; he opens it and find the razor in one of the pockets. He delicately removes it and holds in in the palm of his hand.

Cas presses a finger to Dean's head and heals him quickly with his grace. Dean looks automatically better; he runs a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into his hand. "I just... I don't want to bother you guys. Both so busy with so much to do. I don't deserve—"

"So help me God you say that you don't deserve us," Sam interupts.

"Dean, please." Castiel says, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Let us help you."


End file.
